


breaking things i should keep

by unevenfootsteps



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Disorder, Borderline Personality Disorder, Depression, Dysfunctional Relationships, M/M, Mental Illness, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, dysfunctional med taking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-04-03 09:03:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4095025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unevenfootsteps/pseuds/unevenfootsteps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Harry and Louis are just trying to survive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	breaking things i should keep

**Author's Note:**

> this isn't a happy story. this story involves people with mental illnesses, their dysfunctional behaviors and they don't end up Magically Okay.
> 
> this is a story of harry and louis and at times harryandlouis, and at other times, harry or louis. 
> 
>  
> 
> most of this is based off of my own personal experience (without the relationship), so i am basing off their experiences on things i have been through. 
> 
>  
> 
> hope you enjoy. thank you to m, c and r for reading this over. any mistakes are mine, sorry. 
> 
>  
> 
> _title to florence and the machine. one direction is owned by themselves, this is just for fun._

Degrees of separation.

Louis learns, while rolling in bed with Harry, that they were in the same show for The Script, when they were too young and lost in the disconnection of the world. Before Louis found his first boyfriend, Travis, who was three years older than him and had his eyebrow pierced and wore Doc Martens that thudded heavy on the cement.  
They went to the same vacation spots, once upon a time. Harry talking about Disney Worlwhile biting Louis’ throat, sometimes hard enough to draw blood when Louis felt himself floating out of his head and to the ceiling, bringing him back. Harry talks about Epcot, the colors that always made Louis’ eyes hurt and want to find somewhere darker to rest his head. 

It’s always been about degrees of separation.

*

Louis wakes up to the sound of rain. Soft taps, like his baby sister’s knuckles on the door frame. He almost calls out to them, wants five more minutes of sleep before he has to help Lottie get Phoebe's hair just right or else she’ll hide underneath the bed and refuse to go to school.

He’s alone. 

Louis will never be used to this. To the darkness that only encompasses rain and the weekly pill holder on the corner of his bedside table so he doesn’t go off his meds and is found underneath a library table biting at the skin of his fingers. He can feel the phantom of blood on the corner of his lip. 

He picks at the loose cotton of his Sleater-Kinney shirt that his ex-girlfriend gave him the first night they had sex. There’s a small hole developing near his nipple, a compulsion that nags at the back of his brain every time he wakes up. The compulsion to pick and pick and pick until the whole shirt comes undone and he can finally get to his skin. 

It’s a good thing he started wearing shirts to bed.

*

When Louis was younger, he liked to see how far his skin would go. He thought about how his tongue existed inside of his body, biting it until it bled and looking in the mirror as the cooper dried a flaky red that reminded him of his mother’s lipstick after she came home from a date.

It was never a cry for attention. He tells Harry that on their fourth date to a diner at three fifteen in the morning. Harry is on his sleeping medication, his mouth barely opening an inch and letting words exhale out in a tangled mess and landing in the empty dish on the table that held a cheese danish that tasted stale.

Harry is afraid of blood. He says it’s because he once saw his neighbor’s dog get hit by a car when he was sneaking home with Gemma. The word ‘maggot’ sounds like mah-g as Harry’s head sinks lower and lower and eventually his hand slips from underneath his chin and his head cracks on the plate, and the tablecloth drips red.

*

Louis gets lost on the way to college.

He’s forgotten the veins of roads that sprout out into the web of the city. He covers his ears when the bus horn blares after being cut off. His eyes ache from the light. 

He hasn’t been in school for almost a year. Ten months. Ten months of sitting through recovery, of passing around sheet after sheet on how to effectively fix his life. Ten months of having people call him and program his phone to make sure he doesn’t miss his pills, like he did last time.

Like he’s done since he was fourteen and the first bottle of lithium was pressed into his hand and his mother had to cut the pills to get the doses right.

He’s using the backpack he’s had since high school. Patched up over various years because he can’t afford to pay fifty bucks for a Jansport. Pins decorated all over the coarse material, _HERE N QUEER! FUCK UR RULES, MAN!_ , various bands of past flings he’s dated to get out of his head. 

He’s never been in love.

It’s not out of a bitterment that Louis has decided he’s not in love. It’s the low libido from the pills, the way his jaw sets off after a while, the way his body doesn’t feel his when he’s on his hands and knees and someone is calling him their blue eyed baby and he can’t breathe.

He’s fifteen minutes late to class. He can barely put the teacher’s face together, he avoids the front seat and squeezes into the desk between two girls and gets his notebook out.

Ten months, and the world has continued on without him.

*

  
Harry’s never taken time off of school.

He’s not a good student. Not good in the way Zayn is, who’s currently in the heart of Japan and has been for three months already. Not bad in the way Liam and Niall are, a dyslexic and an ADHD pair of sports medicine students whose piss has smelt like beer for the past three years.

Louis isn’t a good student, either. High school was spent learning how to paint his nails with white out while high off of the fumes without anyone noticing. Skipping school to hang out with his boyfriend who was in their first year of college while Louis was in the middle of his sophomore year, which should’ve been the first sign that something wasn’t right.

But, Louis liked him. Louis liked that he numbed his lip with misshapen ice cubes before piercing his lip with a needle. Every time Louis flicked his tongue out to catch the taste of metal, he thought of his shaky hands and the rush of light he got when the perk of pain settled through his stomach. 

Harry says he’s never had a serious boyfriend. The way he says he goes to school, but doesn’t really. He’s something Louis can’t see through fully, the type to only wear the veins connecting to his heart on his sleeve. He keeps all of his secrets tucked behind his teeth, which he swears have never had the aid of braces.

Louis wears a clear, thin line of braces. He has all four of his wisdom teeth, to which Harry whistles and says he only has one left and he doesn’t want to part with it.

“It’s a part of me,” he says.

Louis flicks his tongue out like it’s about to catch metal.

It doesn’t. Not anymore.

*

Degrees of separation.

Louis and Harry graduated from the same high school. Louis finds out about this when Harry is counting out his pills on his second- hand dinner table. He says, “apparently. I saw you in the yearbook. Weird how the world works, huh?”

Yeah. Weird.

Things wouldn’t have changed if Louis met Harry when they went to the same school. When Harry was in the same concert venue, when Harry scraped his knee on the tiles of Italy’s floor at Epcot and got a bandaid and a bottle of water in China. 

Louis wouldn’t have met Harry if they stepped together, wearing masks or getting twirled around like the paper dragons that the workers were spinning in the humid sun. Louis wouldn’t have grabbed for Harry’s hands, because he didn’t understand the mechanisms that made affection work. 

If Harry reached out, touched Louis, it would have burned.

Stop, Louis would have cried, it burns. Mama! Mama!

*

Growing up in a big family is a foreign concept to the majority of Louis’ friends.

The only person who understood was Zayn. Zayn who disappeared without a word to anyone until he posted a facebook status posing next to a HelloKitty in the streets of Harajuku and wrote four paragraphs about c’est la vie or whatever the hell he was trying to cover up.

Louis doesn’t forgive easily.

*

Therapists are funny people.

Louis has seen too many to count on his fingers. Some days he wakes up and his hands hurt to the point where he can’t unfurl them, the nails bitten jagged. He can feel every edge pierce into his skin on those days, the mornings where he doesn’t think he’s being woken up from his sister, or Harry isn’t sleeping on the couch, or underneath the kitchen table, high off of his own medication.

There are therapists who wear glasses and ask Louis if he’s been doing his breathing techniques. Asking him to recite his name, to make sure he’s not slurring, to check if he’s sober in subtle ways like they’re documenting a lion that’s about to attack.

There are other therapists, the kind with rooms that have specific kinds of lighting to make you sleepy and vulnerable. The kind who have carpal tunnel from writing notesdown about too many people. Sometimes he wonders what happens if they have a panic attack, if they run out of their Xanax or their Lamictal and run naked through the streets.

If Louis were a cat, he’d want to be a panther. He doesn’t know any facts about panthers except that they’re fucking awesome and he’d want to have fur as sleek as theirs. Sometimes he looks at raw meat and wonders how stomachs work, how the lining is made, how the whole body is made and how he has skin.

Usually, when he thinks that, he picks at the corner of his wrist, right on the ball joint. He thinks it’s the closest place to see the bone. Usually, he’ll leave his groceries on the ground and spend ten minutes picking at his skin until his palm was red and a worker iswas sent to shoo him out of the kosher aisle. 

Harry says he would be a bird. 

He says this when he’s touching the scars on Louis’ skin. The cross hatched lines on Louis’ thighs, the ragged red lines on the inside of his arms. He says, “I like the thought of being able to fly.”

“Won’t you get tired?” Louis says, but then realizes that’s not the point.

Harry just wants to be a bird so he can run away without telling anyone. 

*

His current therapist asks how he’s met Harry.

Louis barely remembers. It was at a party, the kind that the clinicians warned him about, where it was a high risk situation and to use his wise mind before making any risky decisions.

Sadly, they weren’t talking about boys.

Harry says that sometimes he doesn’t feel like a boy. Sometimes he doesn’t feel like anything, except that he sometimes feels like he’s resting on dirt in his mother’s garden again, when he overdosed after graduating because he was too scared.

Louis asks if Harry needs him to do anything for that. The days Harry doesn’t feel like himself, but Harry shrugs and says, “I don’t know. I don’t know what you can do for me.”

They met underneath the blare of a song that Louis didn’t like, but Harry liked to move his hips to. Harry said he liked how thick Louis was, the muscle and the way his eyes were scouting the room like he was in power. Louis didn’t correct him and said he was making sure to know where the doors were so he could leave if he felt like he was going to hurt himself.

Harry asks Louis if he’s ever felt scared when they’re underneath someone’s bed, because the mattress is too soft and they’re too anxious to sleep.

Louis doesn’t answer. 

*

How do you fall in love when you’re on the brink of dying?

Louis isn’t doing well in his math class. Louis isn’t doing well in his History of Theater class, either. Every word ends up reminding him of Harry. Harry has green eyes, Harry has brown, curly hair. Harry has tattoos that he doesn’t remember the meaning of because it’s too hard to tell the truth. Harry sings in the shower and Harry has thighs. 

Harry once played a mouse in a school production. He was five years old, and the teacher picked him because he was charismatic and talked too much. Louis played Danny Zuko in his high school, when he wore eyeliner and sometimes put on his mother’s sundresses when no one was home just to see how his hips looked in the fabric.

Louis never tells Harry about his past relationships. He can barely remember them, they bundle up in his mouth and he wants to spit them out, but instead they nest like spider eggs. 

Harry sometimes mumbles once or twice about someone he’s slept with. He says, “I’m a lover of all people,” like Louis is supposed to believe him or act like he cares. Harry sometimes grows translucent, when his scars are an angry red and barb-wired around his ribs. Sometimes he grows so opaque that Louis feels like he’s never touched any part of him. 

Some night he looks alabaster and others, he looks like a carcass that Louis’ panther hands destroyed.

*

He gets a tutor for math. The kind of guy who plays bass for a band that’s not going to go anywhere and makes video game tutorials online in hopes of meeting a girl who likes him for him. Louis is impressed by his sideburns and the sunburn on the tips of his shoulders.

He’s asked, “have you always been bad at math?” To which Louis wants to say, I don’t even remember what I’m good at, but just shrugs.

“Numbers don’t work well for me.”

Louis wanted to be an actor. He wanted to be like Leonardo DiCaprio. He wanted to die wearing a Hawaiian shirt while quoting Shakespeare. 

Then, he just wanted to die. Period.

He’s never been in class for the whole school year. People think Louis is too unstable, that maybe he needs to be put in a home that nests people like him and he can be on his own without really being on his own.

*

Harry asks if Louis is in love with him after waking up from underneath the living room table, the glass fogged from his breath. Louis doesn’t know why Harry doesn’t sleep with him, in the bed, that could eventually be their bed. Harry says it’s for his back.

“I have a bad back,” he tells Louis and then, “do you love me? Is that why you want me to sleep in the same room as you?”

Louis has never been good at keeping conversation with Harry. He always feels two steps behind Harry, despite knowing full well that he’s not.

“People sleep in the same bed.”

“Couples do.”

Louis sips from the lukewarm water near his elbow. “Then it’s better to sleep underneath the table, isn’t it?”

*

Mental illness comes in degrees.

Louis was Bipolar for three years of his life, until he was found in the bathroom with rivulets of red spilling from his collarbone. He was huddled into the corner, the water washing away the blood, but it never stopped. He hoped that roses would bloom, that he would turn into each petal that would let him disappear.

Then, Louis became a Borderline. 

He’s seen as many therapists as he’s seen rusting punk bands in piss reeked venues. They tell him that it doesn’t matter, that you’re still you no matter what.

Louis doesn’t know what it’s like to not be sick. He doesn’t know what it’s like for his wiring to work well on its own. He wants to tell them that he used to be able to run around his yard for hours straight, laughing with the soft, runny sun on his dusty skin. 

He doesn’t remember the last time his joints didn’t hurt. That his legs didn’t rustle every time he was about to sleep. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s wanted to have sex, the last time he’ds let someone touch him.

Harry likes to touch. He likes to sneak his hands underneath Louis’ shirt and spread out his fingers on his back, pressing his calloused tips into the sharp jut of Louis’ shoulderblades. He doesn’t know what Harry gets out of it, what he expects Louis to do when all he does is hiss because Harry is always too cold, like he’s about to die.

They’re both going to die before their friends. They know it’s true. Louis can see it in Harry’s eyes, the way he holds onto Louis’ hand, like he’s about to drag him off a cliff and into Hell.

*

Louis doesn’t have money.

His therapist made him write out a list of things he wanted to accomplish in four months, then six, then a year. Apparently if you make a goal long enough away, it keeps you alive. 

How do you work when light makes you tired? How do you work when you look at the cameras and think that they’re following you, no matter how many corners you try to hide in? How do you work when people talk too loud and make your eyelids hurt?

Harry picks up odd jobs, but he likes studying. He likes studying because it means he doesn’t have to work. He likes studying and not working because it means he can charm people out of their minds and out of their pills. He never said that working was healthy, or that it was helpful. It gets him by. 

On their first date, after burrowing from under the bed, and Harry grabbed his hand and took him to a diner that he apparently used to work at. He was working at a floral store at the time, which was why he got the rose tattooed, apparently.

“Roses have a lot of different meanings,” he tells Louis, like Louis isn’t vibrating out of his skin and is feeling withdrawn from his meds already. “I like roses because when you get one, it can mean something else.”

“Nice,” Louis says, his jaw slacking and his eyes getting sensitive to the light. It’s raining outside, each drop pressing into the window, like it’s about to crack. “I need to go home, sorry.”

Harry doesn’t walk him back. Louis didn’t ask him to, and Harry is selfish in that he’ll remember three hours after Louis has slept in his bed with nothing but his socks on, that he did mean to walk him home. 

“It’s the thought that counts,” Harry tells him the next time they see each other. 

Louis can’t help but say, “Like flowers?” 

Harry grins like a wolf. “Yeah. Exactly like flowers.”

*

Zayn was the one who introduced Louis to comic books.

Zayn has anxiety, the kind that suffocates your lungs and makes it hard to make dentist appointments. He always wanted to be The Hulkthe hulk, to turn into the manifestation of his anxiety and destroy things instead of dealing with them.

Makes sense why he left for Japan.

Louis watches Zayn snapchat skylines and milky mornings. He snapchats dancing with cute Japanese boys and laughing. Louis wonders if he takes his meds every day, if he threw them out before he went on the bullet train.

Sometimes Louis has dreams of falling onto a train track. His therapist says that’s called catastrophizing. 

It happens in slow motion. Sometimes Louis just steps out and lets himself fall, sometimes the shadows crawl up to him and press into his shoulder blades and his teeth break on expanding metal. Sometimes it’s Harry who comes running out from the light and jumps onto Louis, yelling, “here we go!” at the same time the train wails and then it’s back to black.

*

Programs are different than school.

People always ask questions like why don’t we learn how to fill out a bill in high school? Or, why don’t we learn about taxes? Louis’ never asked those questions, mostly because he was too busy trying to get through the month without being sent to the hospital.

The first time Louis had to drop out of school to go to a program, he was fifteen. He still had a flip phone with a ringtone he bought for a dollar on it. His mother said that he shouldn’t go online, that he shouldn’t read about things that could set off something.

It’s a lot of talking in a program. It’s a lot of asking why you’re this way and how you can be that way. Louis can remember how many people smoked American Spirit cigarettes and the one time the trash can started smoking because someone didn’t put out their cigarette. The plastic edges wilted inside of themselves., Louis watched that instead of listening to other people.

His mother couldn’t drive him every day, so one of the adolescent counselors would pick him up in a Lincoln van, the kind that also picked up senior citizens who were going to their adult day care centers.

Each day, Louis would get yelled at for saying he was feeling okay or tired, because those weren’t feelings. He was never good at telling himself, or anyone else how he felt, which was why he was in where he was in the first place.

Louis is failing his calculus class, but he has a C in his History of Theater class, which feels good. The last time Louis got a C, he was taking his meds every day and made sure to check his e-mail before going to bed every night. He was tired at that time, too, and his ribs hurt when he would drink a bottle of water to get rid of the chalk taste of swallowing his pills.

His calculus teacher asks how he’s feeling, and Louis, who is 23, says, “I’m tired, but I’m okay.”

*

Superheroes don’t have Borderline Personality Disorder.

Zayn started to draw because he wanted to see people like him. He wanted to see an Irish-Pakistani superhero who didn’t like to go to the dentist, but loved his mom and had a sick ear piercing because Zayn wanted one.

Louis has never been able to draw. 

Harry likes to do his make up every once in a while, mixing glitter eyeshadows and blushes, carefully painting his face for no one but himself.

“If you were a superhero, would you make them sick, like you?” Louis asks when he’s picking at the scarred patch of skin where his lip piercing used to be. Zayn was always jealous that Louis got to wear eyeliner and have his lip pierced. 

Sometimes Louis would try to pierce Zayn’s lip, pressing icecubes to his plump lip until Zayn told him it was good. 

They never could do it because Louis’ hands shook too much.

Harry shrugs. “I dunno. Never really cared about superheroes, honest. Would be cool to make a witch who is addicted to eating crystals and wears sick jeans, though.”

“You want to be a witch who has a crystal addiction and wears jeans?” Louis asks, pulling his hand away and opening up Bejeweled on his phone to stir away the nervous habit.

Harry’s eyeshadow is red, the kind of red that makes him look tired at the same time it makes his lips look brighter. “You didn’t say it had to make sense. Would you make your superhero sick, like you?”

It’s the innocent drawl Harry always has, the one that comes with being an Aquarius who just wants to be left alone and spiral out. 

“Yeah,” Louis answers. “It’d be nice to see someone who is like me.”

“Hot as hell?” Harry teases, messing up the wing of his sleek black eyeliner to look at Louis.

“No,” Louis laughs. “On the verge of breaking apart every day of their lives, more like.”

*

Louis watches the rivulet of blood that gently seeps into the table cloth as the waitress rushes over to see if Harry is alright.

“Why are you just sitting there?” She asks Louis, but Louis can barely hear her, can barely make out the outline of her face. He wonders what colors her eyes are.

“Huh?” He asks, as the waitress hauls Harry up. He’s snoring, the kind of snore where air gets stuck in his chest and he snorts it out. “I think he took too many of his pills, again.”

“Again?” She asks, hysterical. 

*

The first time they have sex, Louis isn’t fully hard and Harry took his sleeping pills because he didn’t think it would happen.

Their bodies are warm. Louis’ heat seeping into Harry’s bones, making him malleable. Louis’ body is too heavy to lift up that day, the rain makes his bones feel weak, like he is holding an ocean inside of his belly that refuses to balance itself out.

Harry is beautiful. Louis knows this, but barely thinks about it. Harry has gotten used to asking if Louis is in love with him yet, like it’ll all end when Louis does finally take the plunge. Maybe it will. Louis never knows when Harry will decide to leave.

Harry has an unfinished outline on his thigh of a tattoo. Louis can’t make it out, not that he wants to. Harry wheezes out a breath when Louis’ arms give out and their bodies are a tangle of limbs and scars. 

Finding out about each other scares the shit out of Louis. When Harry tells him about the Script concert, when Louis realizes that they’ve always been an inch too far away from each other. That if Harry grabbed out, Louis might’ve not let go.

When Harry’s hand cups his hip, his ass, his back, Louis wants to cry. He wants to cave in because Harry is gentle, too gentle with a body that Louis has never been gentle with. 

“Baby,” Harry whispers, and Louis doesn’t know if it’s meant to comfort or blaze, but it makes Louis tired. It makes Louis come and he’s too out of his mind to apologize.

“Nice,” Harry giggles, and Louis falls asleep with his cheek bruised from crashing into Harry’s collarbone.

*

Niall and Liam are a tornado. 

If Louis knew what he was getting himself into when Zayn decided to have them start a study group and then fuck off to wherever his facebook updates says he is, Louis would’ve flat out refused.

Zayn was always good at wrangling Liam and Niall in, when he would hood his smoky lashes and his cheekbones looked like the sketched out shapes from the light, Niall and Liam would both go quiet. 

Liam is dyslexic. Liam was bullied because of it and because he’s always been too nice and too giving. Louis wants to rip apart anyone who has hurt Liam, who is too good, just like he wants to do the same to anyone who hurts Niall.

Harry doesn’t need to be protected. Harry is so good at playing mind games with people, he could be the one asking Louis about his past and how to fix it and charging for it per hour.

“Like, a prostitute for mental stimulation?” Harry asks.

“No, like someone who likes to help people, asshole,” Louis grits out. 

Harry cackles, and like that, the energy in the room cracks and rains and Louis is holding onto Harry and crying.

*

Harry tells Louis that he always wanted to go to Japan.

He says this after Louis shows him a picture of Zayn in Japan, a snapchat of him speaking well-rehearsed Japanese and laughing like he was never scared to call the dentist last year. He’s become Tthe Hulk, and Louis turns the phone screen off to sleep and looks at Harry.

“How are you gonna do that?” Louis asks. Harry has never talked about his family in detail, and Harry seems to barely have any money that he spends wisely.

Harry shrugs. “Use my savings, probably.”

“You have savings?” Louis asks, feeling jealous and sad all at the same time. He never gets to save, he never gets to hoard and sleep in all of the materialistic treasures.

“Yeah, Lou,” Harry snorts, eyes squinting to size Louis up. “Who do you think I am? I am responsible, you know.”

“I know, I just--” Louis is lost for words. He will miss Harry.

*

Harry gets an L tattooed on the inside of his palm. It’s a small, blue ink L that he slaps across Louis’ face during their first fight.

Louis is flattered as he is uneasy. He tilts his head, the pain swelling his cheek a warm red, like he was sitting out on the sun instead of getting his cheekbone cut on Harry’s thrifted rings.

“A tattoo? For me?” He asks in the midst of the storm clearing, of Harry’s eyes focusing again and his nipples are hard and so is his cock.

“For you,” Harry says and then he’s on his knees and Louis can’t help but whisper, “I love you,” and can’t help but come when Harry sobs.

*

Love is scary.

Being sick is as scary, but they both come in degrees. 

Harry is scary, Harry is all encompassing and suffocating. Harry is scared of blood, and drops out of school because he’s missed too many classes.

His therapist asks what his goal for the year is and Louis can’t help but say, “stay in love.”

*

Harry wants Louis to come with him to Japan.

Harry wants Louis to ask Zayn to meet them there, Harry wants Louis to let Liam and Niall take care of themselves, but mostly he wants Louis to let go of his demons.

When Louis was eighteen, he was in the hospital at the same time Harry was. They were on separate ends of the town, in different hospitals. They both tried to die, because they’ve clung to the idea of dying for so long that it eventually broke them down.

Harry wants Louis and him to throw away their pills, their monthly appointments, the weary looks that they get when they hold hands and people notice. Harry wants Louis to be his.

Louis looks at Harry and says, “I love you,” then says, “Okay,” and exhales.

*

There are no more degrees.

There isn’t a conversation where they both picked the same sweater out at different times, or kissed the same people but they were both different then, too.

There isn’t a bleeding sun that Louis’ eyes feel tired from when he’s sweating through Disney World as Harry’s hand grows sticky from the popsicle slick on his hand. 

There are no more steps behind and no steps forward. There’s just Harry laughing and crashing their mouths together and a bright light. When Louis talks to his therapist about, she smiles faintly and says, _that’s what a safe space is, Louis._

 


End file.
